Beneath The Surface
by occaryx
Summary: After the Scout rescue mission, Tarkus goes to check on Cyrus and finds him less than satisfied with the outcome.  Dawn of War 2, Chaos Rising


Long before he reaches the arming alcove of the Scout Sergeant, Tarkus can hear the soft clink of metal on metal and smell the oily scent of the sacred unguents that Cyrus uses to anoint his weapons. The Armoury is empty and silent save for these small noises, and the tread of Tarkus' feet on the deck is loud without the bustle of scouts and servitors that normally fills this room. High above, votive candles give out a flickering glow, and hanging censers drape the room with sacred incense. It's as peaceful as a Chapel in here, and filled as it is with the accoutrements of war it is perhaps an even more fitting place of worship for an Astartes.

Cyrus is seated with his back to the wall at the very end of the long corridor of alcoves, his rifle broken apart and in pieces before him on the bench. There are no servitors attending him, and not even one of his ever-present novices is there to keep a vigil at his side. Tarkus does not sigh, but when Cyrus does not look up to acknowledge him he knows that he has made the right choice in coming here. Without being asked he steps inside the alcove and slowly lowers himself on to the bench opposite the Scout Sergeant.

Through the metal deck at his feet, Tarkus can feel the subtle hum of the Battle Barge's powerful engines. The coiled power of the great old beast is a solemn and dangerous thing, a grand accompaniment to the warriors it shields within. This old ship has been cruising the stars since the lost times before the Heresy itself, and to have a place on its great journey is an honour. He leans his bare head back against the wall and closes his eyes as he listens to the soft chime of weapon components being polished, feeling the ship's vibrations through his skull.

"Twenty seven," Cyrus rasps.

Tarkus does not open his eyes. This is what he has come for, to hear these words. Across from him, Cyrus is polishing the stock of his sniper rifle, the movements sharp and angry only to one that knows him very well. Tarkus knows him in such a way, which is why he is here.

"Twenty seven," the Scout Sergeant repeats, and there's a sharp crack of metal on metal as he snaps a component back into place. "We can ill afford a single one of those losses."

It is true. The Blood Ravens have suffered in recent years with the disastrous campaign at Kronos, and the loss of Cyrene. New blood, future warriors, are becoming a precious commodity the Chapter cannot afford to squander. To Cyrus, the guard and mentor of the company's flock of potentials, the recent loss of the scouts is an unbearable tragedy. Tarkus knows that of them all, Cyrus is the one to feel the blow most keenly. The grim, humourless Scout Sergeant would have all and sundry believe that there is nothing in this galaxy that can light his dark heart, nothing that can lift the punishing gloom of his outlook. Tarkus knows better.

Cyrus makes no accusations. He does not speak ill of the Force Commander, or of their Captain, for to do so is against his nature and is not the way he chooses to exert his influence. He made his choice a long time ago and his lack of rank is no reflection of the respect he has garnered over the years, or the skills which he possesses. Of them all he knows only too well the value of the support that a Sergeant gives to a Commander. Nonetheless, the judgement is there, written plain upon him.

There is nothing Tarkus can say to ease his brother's suffering, nothing at least that will be accepted by the other man. It does not hurt to remind him sometimes of who they serve. "The Emperor has them now, Cyrus," he says.

Without looking, he can feel the other man stiffen, and picture the frown that draws his features in tight. Cyrus' faith is strong, but he is an old Marine, they both are, and Cyrus in particular has seen many terrible things in his long career. Even to him it must sting to be chastised, no matter how gently.

"When I was in the Deathguard," Cyrus says, "I fought xenos monstrosities that stained the Galaxy with their heresies. Creatures little better than Warp-spawn that poisoned everything they touched. Abominations in the sight of the Emperor that drove men mad to look upon them. We died even as we slew them. They took more than their share of the Emperor's sons with them before we cleansed the universe of their unholy taint. But not before they had shown us their perversities. Their foulness. The things I have seen, Tarkus, I cannot even speak of them."

Tarkus listens in silence, his eyes still closed. It is rare for Cyrus to speak so openly of his tour of duty with the Ordo Xenos, and rarer still for him to need to. Briefly, he wonders if a Chaplain would be a better choice of audience for this confession, but then dismisses the idea. Cyrus is a friend of many decades, and sometimes all that is needed is a like mind.

"Where do you go with this, old friend?" he asks.

Cyrus sighs and continues to polish the barrel of his rifle. It is some time before he replies, and when he does there is the barest hint of self-recrimination in his tone. "It is my duty to guide and protect those novices," he says. "To ensure that they receive the training they need to become the warriors that will lead this Chapter's fight in the future. Without them, there is no future, and this Chapter will end. The Emperor's work will be unfinished."

For the first time since he has sat down, Tarkus opens his eyes and looks directly at his companion. Cyrus' face is drawn into a frown and the movements of his hands have slowed almost to a stop. For a long moment Tarkus simply watches him. He has always known the depth of his brother's loyalty to the young warriors that he trains and the investment he has made in them. This desire to protect them is not unknown to him, nor to any who have called upon the services of the Blood Raven scouts, but it is rarely displayed alongside such- Tarkus is hesitant to put a name to the emotion he sees in the other Marine's face. Disappointment? Grief even.

"You know as well as I, brother, that sacrifice is the price we pay to serve our Emperor," he says softly. "We did only that which was necessary to serve Him."

For a moment, Cyrus pauses in his ministrations, and then the rhythm of his hands starts up again. The slightest of grim smiles pulls at the corner of his mouth - acceptance of his brother's words. Tarkus watches him for a minute longer until he is satisfied that the tension in the Scout Master's shoulders is somewhat eased.

"The Emperor protects," Cyrus says, and not even Tarkus who knows him so very well can read the bitterness that underlies the statement.

"Yes, brother," he replies. "Indeed He does."

In the empty Armoury the only disturbance is the chime of metal on metal as the Scout Sergeant completes his rituals, and the soft sound of breathing from the oldest of his friends who keeps watch beside him.


End file.
